Gravity, Gibbs, and Other Facts of the Universe
by black.k.kat
Summary: Tony faces a stark reminder of Gibbs's mortality when a case goes wrong. But one thing about Gibbs is that he always comes back. Slash.


**Rating:** Teen (for safety)

**Word count:** ~ 1,400

**Warnings: ** . Slight slash (of the Gibbs/DiNozzo persuasion). English from a non-native. Business as usual, nothing to see; move along (to the story, I mean). Don't let the quirky title fool you, either: it's angst-heavy.

**Disclaimer: **All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N: **Well, I promised myself months ago that I wouldn't get sucked into any more fandoms without dipping my toes in others. As Torchwood seems to be taking over _everything_ at the moment, I wrote this. I'm an NCIS virgin, so be gentle (not really, I can handle whatever critiques you'd care to throw at me). I promise I'll get their characters down someday…

* * *

_**Gravity, Gibbs, and Other Facts of the Universe**_

Everything about the case goes wrong right from the beginning. Two dead petty officers behind a bar, with no witnesses, no cameras, and no apparent motive, and Gibbs is riding them all hard. McGee manages to find some encrypted emails leading to an underground fighting ring, but he can't get any more and the trail dries up. The scene is wiped clean of pretty much everything, so Abby has no luck, and even Ziva's many shady contacts are useless here.

Gibbs is on his fifth coffee of the morning when he stalks in, and they all hunker down over their keyboards a little in self-defense. Tony feels awful. He hasn't gotten a shower in three days because of maintenance in his rat-hole apartment, he's down to his last clean shirt, and while he loves pizza just as much as the next thirty-something bachelor, he's getting kind of sick of eating it for every meal. And he _knows_ Gibbs is going to ask for—

"Report," he snaps, and there's a long beat of silence. Tony and Ziva trade worried glances across the bullpen. They've got nothing.

It's even worse when Gibbs doesn't say anything. No recriminations, no dark growls, just…silence. He turns and strides out of the bullpen, coffee left to cool on his desk, and Tony winces. Nothing the boss could say would make more of an impact than _that_.

McGee clears his throat and bolts out from behind his desk. "I'll go help Abby look over those emails again," he mutters, and takes off for the lab at a near sprint.

Another shared glance with Tony and Ziva turns back to her computer. "I will check into their relatives' backgrounds. Tony, bank records?"

"Right," he sighs, wishing vainly for a shower or a non-greasy meal as he boots up the search program. It's going to be a long day, and it's only seven a.m.

* * *

It takes bits and pieces from all of them, but eventually, they manage to trace everything back to an unlisted second cousin of one of the petty officers, who seems to be operating the fighting ring from a warehouse by the docks. Gibbs's "Gear up," is the sweetest sound Tony's heard in a long time.

But everything still goes wrong.

They separate at the warehouse, trying to cover more ground and catch the murderer before he goes to ground, but there's a lot of floor space divided by shipping crates. Comms are on and they're checking in as ordered, but it's been a long four days on very little sleep and it takes Tony several minutes to realize that Gibbs isn't directing anymore.

"Boss?" he hisses. "Boss, you there?"

No answer.

He rounds one final stack of crates and comes face to face with Ziva, who looks equally worried, and with a nod to her he tries again. "Boss? Gibbs? McGee, do you have eyes on Gibbs?"

"Negative." McGee sounds almost frantic. "Tony, there are more bodies back here. We have to—"

There's a sudden flurry of gunshots from the back of the building, deafening in the tense hush, and Tony jerks around. Ziva's already moving, going at a run, and Tony follows her with a curse. They sprint around another pile of crates, guns drawn, and freeze at the scene in front of them.

The suspect is on the ground, wheezing and moaning, with a bullet in his shoulder and leg. Across from him, fifteen yards away, Gibbs lies on the cement, deathly still, with a spreading pool of blood underneath him.

For one numb moment, Tony simply can't make sense of what he sees. His brain won't process anything. Gibbs, who is steel and titanium wrapped up in barbed wire and Kevlar, is indestructible. Even an explosion that took out part of a ship wasn't enough to keep him down for long.

But this looks like it just might be, and Tony doesn't think he's ever been so terrified in his life.

* * *

Tony forgets, sometimes, that Gibbs isn't exactly a big man. He's broad at the shoulders, sure, but Tony has a few good inches on him in the height department, a little more reach and a slightly longer stride. Usually, the difference doesn't even register, because Gibbs's personality fills up so much space that it generates the same gravitational pull as a small planet. It's not just ego, either—Gibbs is relatively humble where it counts. It's fire and ferocity and drive, a sense of justice and honor, and old pain mixed in with the newer. That's what fills up all the space in a way a man four times Gibbs's size couldn't manage.

But then there are times like this, when all that personality has been stripped away, when there's noting to see but a battered form in a hospital bed, and Tony is suddenly, painfully reminded that for all his broad shoulders and his training and his unstoppable force, Gibbs is just a man. An aging man, too, even though Tony never remembers at other times that his whitening hair is a sign of advancing age. Gibbs is eternal, immovable, as much a fact of the universe as gravity.

Except for when he isn't.

Tony breathes deeply, drops his head into his hands. His hair is greasy and unkempt, and he still hasn't gotten that shower, but it all seems ridiculous now. There's nothing Tony wants more in the world—more than he wants a clean change of clothes, more than he wants a cup of good hot chocolate, more than he wants this whole damned affair to be _over_ with—than for Gibbs to wake up _right now_. They've caught the bad guy, taken care of the crime scene, and filed all of their reports. There's only one loose end waiting to be tied up, and it's currently unconscious on the bed next to him, breathing through a tube and looking far, far too small to ever be the Bossman.

He's about three and a half seconds from getting up, apologizing to the nurses for bullying them into letting him stay, and going home when a hand settles on top of his bowed head, fingers running carefully through his hair. Tony freezes, holds his breath—can't be, it's just his imagination, he's overtired and hallucinating—but the warm touch doesn't go away. Carefully, so as not to dislodge the gentle touch, he raises his head to meet ice-blue eyes that are slightly crinkled with humor and warmth.

"Boss," Tony says, and it's a rush of sheer _relief_. "You're awake. Thought you were gonna laze around in bed all day."

The touch turns to a gentle head-slap before returning to cup the nape of his neck and pull him close. Tony goes with it, leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Gibbs's forehead. He feels almost weak with the liberation of tension, as though every muscle has relaxed. Already, the air is starting to feel full, the room growing smaller. Gibbs is coming back to them.

To Tony.

It will be a long time before Tony can take anything for granted again.

It doesn't bother him.


End file.
